Forever is a Lonely Word
by nine miles to go
Summary: Claire has found her happiness, the normalcy she has craved since it all began. But Sylar has to tear her apart if he's ever going to put her back together in time for forever. Eventual ClairexSylar
1. Chapter One

Forever is a Lonely Word

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes! For shame!

* * *

Chapter One 

It was the July before her sophomore year when she first met Eric. She was studying abroad in London, a healthy ocean away from all of the nonstop madness that had plagued her for the last four years. It was three weeks of sheer bliss—visiting art galleries, going to concerts, lunching on the Thames. For the first time in her life she wasn't compromising. It wasn't just a sliver of the normality she'd craved, it was all of it and more.

And so was he.

They'd taken a day trip to France when they first stumbled into each other. She didn't understand a lick of French, which became all too apparent when she tried to buy a ticket on the commuter rails. A few days' worth of conversational French flitted out of her brain the moment the man behind the ticket counter started to garble in what might have been gibberish. Flustered and self-conscious, she turned around with a helpless expression, and there he was.

"I got it, Claire," he said with a winning smile, and then spoke flawless gibberish to the impatient ticket-counter man.

"How—"

He handed her the ticket and her change. "Eiffel tower, right?" he said. "Me, too."

She lowered her guard, realizing that she'd panicked on instinct when he'd known her name. After a moment she recognized him as one of her classmates, and she blushed, embarrassed that she'd leapt to conclusions when he was only trying to be helpful.

"I'm sorry, I don't know your name," she said, following him to the rail tracks.

"Eric," he said, extending a hand to shake hers. "We were in English Lit with each other last semester."

It had been a large enough class that she probably had never had the chance to sit next to him, or else she would have remembered him faster. "What a doozy that class was," she said, trying to be conversational.

"I'm not gonna lie, that woman could teach English Lit to a wall and get better results," he agreed.

Claire laughed with an ease she'd forgotten she was capable of. She rolled her eyes and admitted, "I'm starting to wish I'd taken some French last semester instead."

Eric shuffled in place, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders braced in an endearing sort of way. "Well, how about you stick with me for the day? I mean, between the two of us we should manage to navigate our way through this city."

She considered traipsing around Paris with an absolute stranger, and figured it was more practical than walking alone. "I'll be dead weight," she warned him after a moment had passed.

He looked at his feet and said, "I mean—you don't have to if you don't want to, I get it—"

"I'd love to," she assured him, just as the train pulled up.

A goofy grin lit up his face. "Alrighty, then. Paris, here we come."

* * *

Their first kiss was in the freezing cold rain, waiting for the bus to take them to the airport. She'd been telling him about her classes next semester, just prattling away to fill the empty air with words, when he'd leaned in and kissed her.

At first her eyes widened in shock at the unexpected gesture, but then all at once she was pressing herself against him, taking in everything at once—the rain running down their faces, his warm hands on the back of her neck, the sounds of the street all blurring into nothingness, until it was just the two of them. So simple. So _normal. _A boy and a girl, sharing a kiss on the sidewalk, her heart soaring through her throat with joy.

After what must have been a lifetime, they broke away, panting.

"Wow," she said breathlessly.

"Sorry," he stammered, "I just—these past few weeks—"

She grinned at him, taking a step with a newfound confidence, feeling bolder than she ever had. "Don't be sorry," she said, tiptoeing to kiss him again.

* * *

"So," said Gretchen that September, lying on her bed from across their tiny room, flipping through a magazine. "You in love with him?"

Claire could sense the undertones of the question. It had been a year since she and her roommate had acknowledged that they would remain best friends and nothing more, and it had been a surprisingly easy adjustment until now. Neither of them showed any particular interest in anyone else, seeing as they were always with each other, and perfectly content that way. But Eric, as crazy as Claire was about him, threw a wrench into the routine.

"In love?" she said, scoffing a little bit. "I don't know, I've only known him a few months."

"Aw, come on, you've gotta know by now," Gretchen prodded. "You've made it facebook official and everything."

Of course Claire knew how she felt about Eric, but she wasn't about to tell her lovesick roommate that she was falling for a guy she'd only just met over the summer. While Claire was perfectly happy to relish this cliché romance, she knew it would only irk Gretchen to hear about it.

"He's a great guy," she said simply, pretending that her calculus work was distracting her from the conversation.

"That's it?"

Claire smiled into her notebook. "For now."

* * *

They first said "I love you" to each other on the roof of the off-campus apartment building he lived in, staring up at the stars on a chilly November night. They laid there in the quiet for awhile, and Claire found herself suddenly torn by a decision she'd been putting off for too long.

"Something's the matter," Eric said gently. He sat up, leaning against the brick. "If we're moving too fast—"

"No," said Claire, shaking her head. "It's not that."

After another long beat of silence he prompted her: "Then what is it?"

She sighed, drawing her knees toward her chest. This was it. If she said it now, if she let her past out in the open, she could no longer make-believe that everything was normal. It would rip right through this perfect fantasy, rip a hole that might be too large to fix.

But if she didn't say it now, it wouldn't be fair to Eric. It was now or never. And she loved him so much that she couldn't bear to betray his trust by lying to him any further.

"I'm not normal," she said, staring at her knees, feeling his gaze intent on her.

Eric laughed under his breath a little and said, "Of course you're not. You're Claire Bennet. You're—well, you're smart and funny and . . . beautiful."

She smiled up at him, almost painfully. He sensed the tension and added, "Plus, you arrange your socks by color and thickness. That can't be normal," earning himself a small giggle from her before she sobered and straightened her back to face him.

"You're so sweet," she said, with a tinge of regret. She didn't want to lose him. "And I want you to know that . . . if this changes things . . . I understand."

"What could possibly make me change the way I feel about you?" he said earnestly.

"This," she said, trembling uncharacteristically as she pulled out her room key. Never had she been this nervous outing herself; never had she had this much to lose. "Don't freak out. Just watch," she instructed.

She pulled up her sleeve, pressed the sharp edge of the key into the skin of her forearm, and dug forcefully, watching as her skin burst scarlet with blood.

Beside her Eric gasped her name, grabbing the key from her. "What—Claire, why would you—Oh, my God."

Her skin was already shifting back into place, the blood already flowing back in her able veins. She pulled her sleeve forward and looked up at him timidly. His face was white as a ghost, his mouth wide open, his hand still poised with the bloody key.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I—" She choked on the words, and lost sight of his expression, her eyes welling with unwilling tears. "I'll just go." She righted herself on the cement, ready to make a break for it, when she felt his hand grab her coat.

"Claire," he said, and his voice was so firm in comparison to hers that she was compelled to look back at him.

"Hey," Eric said soothingly, and she was on the ground beside him again, leaning onto his shoulder as he rubbed her back. "It's okay. Geez, Claire . . ." He laughed in a strained manner. "You scared me."

"Because I'm a freak."

"No, because I thought you were hurt—God, Claire, I never want to see you hurt," he emphasized, blowing a breath of relief.

"Good, you won't ever have to," she managed bitterly through her tears.

"Thank God you're okay," he said, and she felt guilty for putting him through this, for disrupting the normal life he'd taken for granted. She buried her face into his jacket, thinking that she didn't even deserve that much, when he whispered, "And you're not a freak, Claire."

"I am. Look at me. I've—I've fallen off of buildings, I've walked through fire, I've—" She saw him shuddering and cut herself off, feeling like a fish out of water, staring at him as if he could possibly have the answers she needed.

"Claire," Eric said seriously. "This . . . " He grappled for a word and gave up. "It doesn't change you. You're still—you're still you. You're still the girl I'm in love with."

She let him pull her closer, and for the first time in her whole life she finally felt invincible.

* * *

"Well, I like him."

Claire raised an eyebrow at her father from the sink, where she was washing the last of the dishes from their Christmas Eve dinner. "Try to dial down the enthusiasm, there, Dad."

"He's a nice kid, but Claire . . . does he . . . ?"

"He knows," she said, stiffening.

She diverted her attention to the dishes, and after a long while her father said, "Well, I suppose that you're old enough to make those decisions now."

"You know I wouldn't have done it lightly."

"I know," her father said, placing a hand on her shoulder. She turned to look at him and saw that he wasn't finished quite yet. "It's just . . . does he know what he might get mixed up in?"

For a moment she was too indignant to think of a sensible reply. "I'd never put him in danger—"

"Not on purpose, Claire, I know that. _Believe_ me, I've gone to the greatest lengths possible to protect our family, but sometimes—" The corners of his mouth drooped almost imperceptibly and his eyes flitted downward. "Sometimes there are things you can't protect him from."

Claire shook her head. "Nothing has happened in the past year, Dad—"

"Sylar is still out there," he interrupted, insistent.

She rounded on him, forgetting the dishes completely. "_Sylar _is dead."

"You don't know that," he pressed. He followed her into the living room as she paced away from him. "And even if Sylar really is gone, you know that's not all you have to worry about. You're different, Claire—"

"But I have a _normal life_ now. Nobody's after us, the world's not in danger"

"And I'm so happy for you. But you can never be too careful, Claire. If you really care about this boy, you won't let your guard down. Even for a second."

She was angry enough by now that she wanted to storm out of the apartment. Here he was, yet another ripple disturbing the fabric of her normalcy after she'd spent so long piecing it together. It wasn't fair. How dare he accuse her of not being careful enough? Hadn't she lived through it all herself, hadn't she been more determined than anyone to end Sam's twisted plot so she could get on with her life?

He was treating her like a child. But she wasn't going to act like one.

So with a deep breath she said through her teeth, "Not even for a second. I promise."

* * *

"We don't have to do this, if you're not ready."

"Eric. I want to. I love you."

"I know, I know that, and you know I love you, but I don't want you to think that you're obligated to . . . you know. "

"Don't _you_ want to do it?"

"Of course! Claire, don't—don't get me wrong, of course I want to . . ."

She rolled over on his bed, leaning her face closer to his. She grabbed his hands and said, "I've wanted this for a long time."

He pulled her close, taking in the smell of her. "Oh, Claire. You have no idea."

* * *

That brisk January night she practically swept out of the doors of the Metro, absolutely beaming from the aliveness of it all. She wanted to shout to the near empty terminal, she wanted to spin around with her purse flailing on the city street, she wanted everybody to know just how magical her night had been, how everything that had happened to her until now seemed inconsequential in comparison.

When she heard her phone ring she couldn't help but breathlessly exclaim, "Gretchen, you won't believe my night!"

"Claire—"

"Gretch, it was amazing. _He _was amazing. It was—it was romantic, and perfect, and better than I could have ever imagined it—"

"Listen, Claire—"

"It was like we were two completely different people. Like—I can't even describe it, we just _connected, _you know? Have you ever just had that feeling, like you're the only two people in the world in that moment, that nothing can ever be as special as—"

"Claire," Gretchen yelled into the phone, startling Claire into silence. She recognized the hysteria in her roommate's voice and felt her heart lurch. "What are you _talking _about?"

"Eric," said Claire quietly, slowing her strides. "I'm talking about Eric, of course."

Gretchen was absolutely silent on the other end, and Claire suddenly felt like an ass. Of course Gretchen didn't want to hear about how she lost her virginity to Eric. How could she have been so thoughtless?

"I'm sorry," she said, but Gretchen still didn't respond right away.

"Claire, where . . . where are you?"

"I just got off the Metro, I'm headed toward campus right now. Gretchen, what's wrong?"

"It's . . . you . . . you couldn't have just been with Eric."

Claire laughed nervously. "What do you mean?"

"Eric's dead."


	2. Chapter Two

Forever is a Lonely Word

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes! For shame!

* * *

Chapter Two 

She didn't cry. She didn't deserve the relief of tears, even if she could have managed them. When she arrived back at the dorm that night and saw Gretchen's red cheeks glistening with tears, her eyes wary and upset, Claire froze in the doorway, mute.

"Claire," Gretchen said, rising from the bed to console her. She wrapped her arms around her and Claire thought she might have fallen through the floor otherwise. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry . . . "

Even then Claire knew instinctively that she was the reason he was dead. At that point it was too much to even process what had happened earlier that night—_who_ had happened, that is—the only concrete thought in her head was _I killed him, I killed him. He's dead and I've killed him._

"How did it happen," Claire asked in a small voice.

Gretchen pulled away, thinning her lower lip with the effort to say it out loud. "Someone broke into his apartment to rob him. Whoever it was . . . they slit his throat."

It was all the confirmation Claire needed. Sylar was back.

She wished she were a weak enough person to faint at the news, but instead she would remain painfully conscious, denied any hope of escape. It occurred to her that it would be like this forever. That she would always feel this irreparable pain in her chest, this strain in her heart, and no amount of rapid regeneration was going to fix it.

So instead of falling apart she drew away from Gretchen, feeling her fists clench at her sides.

"Claire, where were you?"

Of course Gretchen wouldn't let it go.

"At a hotel," she said numbly. "That's where we—where we planned to do it. For the first time." Her throat was thick with shame, humiliation, and a self-hatred that would no doubt persist throughout all her immortal life. She couldn't even look Gretchen in the face. She was too dirty, too tainted.

And she knew that if Sylar would stoop so low as to murder the only boy she had ever loved, he wouldn't hesitate to kill Gretchen just as brutally.

"I have to leave," Claire decided at once, already diving under the bed for her suitcase.

"What?" Gretchen exclaimed. "Claire, you can't—where are you going?"

"Away from here. It's not safe."

"I'll come with you—"

"_No!_" Claire yelped, because that was the absolute last thing she needed right now. Gretchen took a step back, shrinking away. Claire sighed and said, "That's why I need to leave. You're in danger. Everyone is, as long as I'm here."

"I don't care—Claire—don't you understand? I love you—"

"Don't say that," Claire begged, rounding on Gretchen. "_Please. _Just—don't say that to me, ever again." She zipped up the haphazard contents of her bag and looked at her near-sobbing roommate. "I want you to live, Gretchen. And to do that, you're just going to have to erase me, alright? If something happened to you—"

"Then it's my fault. My choice."

Claire shook her head. "I'm sorry, Gretchen."

She headed for the door, and in one last attempt Gretchen demanded, "What if something happens to you?"

Claire laughed, hysterical. "_Nothing_ can happen to me. He knows that, he knows I can't die, so he's breaking me instead."

"He? Who is he?" When Claire didn't answer Gretchen rushed up and put a hand on the door as if to stop her. "Claire, just tell me what's happening. Tell me what you're going to do."

She was going to hunt him down. Kill him. Even if it took eternity.

"Gretchen. You have to let me go."

* * *

By February she was in New York, living in a tiny, disgusting little apartment and working in a pizza parlor. With Rebel's help she'd procured a new identity, an untraceable cell phone number, a hole she could hide in for as long as it took to hunt him down.

The longer she stayed, though, the more unclear it became—who was hunting who?

Claire intentionally made no friends, no ties with anyone she came in contact with. She knew any ties she made were ties that Sylar could break, and somehow she knew he was watching her. The proof came a week after she moved to New York: she was lying on her bed when she leaned over and saw him, staring at her with a feral look in her eyes.

"It's better that way, you know. They'll only die. All of them."

She opened her mouth—to do what, scream?—but he was already gone, before she could make a complete fool of herself.

It occurred to her after this incident that she lacked a plan. Hunting Sylar down was simple enough. He was haunting her like a shadow, so she knew moving to New York was not an attempt to find him so much as it was an attempt to get him away from people she cared about. He would always be when step behind her, torturing her like this.

That didn't help her with finding a way to kill him.

* * *

Sometimes he pretended to be customers at the parlor. She was always on her guard, but no matter how alert she was she could never tell when it was him, not until he decided to let her know.

The first time he came as a frail old woman. He probably got some pathetic kick out of shocking her with the contrast of it. The woman padded in slowly, sat down in one of the booths by the window, and ordered a single piece of cheese pizza.

When Claire rollerbladed over to hand her the check, she said, "Oh, dear, me. I seemed to have forgotten my wallet, Claire."

For a second she thought nothing of it. She was wearing a nametag, after all. Sure, it was weird to be addressed by her first name by a stranger, but—

But the nametag read "Jenny."

"Get out," Claire said under her breath.

"Excuse me?"

The question was so forlornly posed that for a moment she hesitated, wondering if this meant she was really losing it, mistaking an innocent old woman for a serial killer. She took a step back, deciding that either way the situation horrified her. But she was through with taking chances.

"Leave me alone," she said as firmly as she could manage. There was nothing she could do here in this stupid pizza parlor, no way to hurt him, to punish him, except to say again, "Please, just leave me alone."

A perverse smile stretched across the bottom of the old woman's face. "There will come a time," she said, leaning forward, "when you will beg for me to stay."

"I'd rather die," said Claire vehemently.

"We both know you're better than that."

Then, just as suddenly as the night before, the old woman vanished, leaving Claire with an unpaid pizza bill and a heart full of hate.

* * *

After the first two months of living alone the dreams started. It was unbearable, as Eric's death had finally caught up with her, so painfully that it seemed to happen over and over again, every time she fell asleep. She'd see his face, the terror in his eyes; she'd hear him screaming her name as a last desperate plea; then everything was red, red with his blood spilling all over the tiles in his apartment.

She'd always wake up in the middle of the night sobbing, her heart thudding like a drum, feeling pathetic as she tucked her knees into her chest. The bare walls of the dingy apartment seemed to be watching her, as if she had personified the very walls as Sylar's unrelenting presence in her life. Furiously she swiped at the tears, knowing it was paranoid, and in a twisted way, selfish to think that he was watching her every second, but if he was, she sure as hell didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. He'd already taken too much from her.

Until the nightmares started recurring every night, her grief and guilt over Eric had consumed her every motion and thought that wasn't already dedicated to finding ways to make Sylar suffer. But now that she was so determined not to fall asleep, she had time, endless, torturous lengths of time, to piece together the events of that night.

Of course she knew that if it hadn't been Eric, it had been Sylar. Sylar, who made everything seem so magical that night. Sylar, who had so gently laid her down and taken her innocence. Sylar, who had moaned her name and caressed her face after brutally murdering the only chance she'd ever had at true love.

And the worst part was, she'd known it. She'd felt the difference between him and Eric—she'd said it herself on the phone to Gretchen that night: _It was like we were two completely different people._ Her own words echoed in her head like the last nail in Eric's coffin, the act of betrayal that sent him to his grave.

The thought of it made her physically ill. Sometimes, if she couldn't distract herself properly, she would become trapped in the memory of it until she gagged, running for the bathroom so she could empty herself, rid herself of the evil of him.

It got to the point where she'd feel inexplicably nauseous all day and night. It was not a feeling she was accustomed to; invincibility had that perk. She wondered hopefully if it meant there was something wrong with her ability, but one quick test with a kitchen knife proved that everything was still in working order.

She felt so persistently ill that her manager started to comment, and then the customers.

"You're lookin' a little green there, miss," said a man in his thirties in a baseball cap.

Claire's eyes narrowed. "I'm just fine, thanks."

"Maybe if you got a bit more sleep at night—"

When she turned on her heels and walked away she heard him laughing at her reaction. It was so condescending her very fingers twitched with the urge to smack him across the face, as if she could even make him feel it, let alone leave a lasting mark.

For the rest of the shift he just sat there, mocking her by how casually he sipped his soda and ate his calzone. He read the paper, made conversation with the new mom carting around her baby, whistled something cheerful—acted like a _human being._ Her fury with him for being there like that was so unmanageable that she was visibly shaking. Unable to deal with it, she finally just told her manager she was ill and left her shift an hour early.

She didn't notice Sylar's disguise following her out. Probably because he didn't. Instead he seemed to appear from nowhere, walking at her side in an instant.

Again, the helplessness. There was nothing she could do to him, no way to hurt him, except to hate him with her whole being until she figured out a better way.

"You're so pathetic that you have to resort to these little disguises, huh?" she said scathingly, wishing he would flinch and knowing that he wouldn't. "Just can't stand looking in a mirror and seeing the monster that you are."

"Choice words for the girl who changed her name and cut off all ties with her previous life," Sylar replied in the stranger's voice, almost cheerfully smug.

"Because of you," she seethed. "Because of what you did."

"Claire, Claire, Claire," he sighed, as if she were a small child who needed his guidance. In one beat he morphed into his usual self and Claire felt a shiver of disgust run up her spine. "Don't you see? I'm only trying to lend a hand."

His sleeve brushed up against her uniform and she recoiled, nearly stepping out into the street. Not that it would have mattered.

"Why me?" she asked bitterly. "Why, of all people, are you _following_ me—ruining _everything—_"

"You know exactly why. We're going to live forever, Claire, and in a hundred years, everyone you know and love will be dead. So I have to ask you: why bother?"

"What does it matter to you?" Claire demanded. "What does it matter if I was happy?"

"So I sped up your unhappiness a few years. What does it matter in the long run."

His nonchalance was chilling. His rationale was so twisted that she couldn't appropriately collect her thoughts. "I don't plan to live forever. I'm nowhere near as narcissistic as you," she shot back.

"Of course you are. You let Eric die, didn't you?"

"Don't—I didn't—how _dare _you," she cried. "You _murdered_ Eric."

Sylar raised his cunning eyebrow. "Ah, but you knew exactly what you were doing, letting him into your life. Daddy warned you, didn't he, Claire-bear?"

If her heart weren't impenetrable she could have sworn it stopped in that moment. He noticed, of course. Maybe because he could hear her breath catch, or maybe because he saw the twitch on her lip, or caught the subtle change in her stride, but regardless, he knew just how to exploit her.

"You could have spared him. But you were selfish. You were reckless, keeping him in your life just so you could pretend to be _normal_," he said, enunciating the last word like it was a sour grape in his mouth. He shook his head. "A shame, really. You don't even care how special you are."

"I loved him," she whispered.

"You'll forgive me one day," said Sylar. "Thank me, even."

"Never," she vowed fiercely. "I'll be alone for the rest of my life, if that's what it takes. But I will never forgive you."

"Ah, but Claire, you won't be alone. We've made sure of that, haven't we?" With that, his leering eyes very deliberately trailed to her stomach. She followed his gaze, wondering what was so mystifying about her uniform, when her gut clenched with horror. In that moment he met her eyes and smiled.

"No," she gasped.

Her knees buckled and she faintly perceived that Sylar had, in fact, caught her in his arms. Immediately she regained awareness and struggled against his grasp, until he placed a hand on her forehead and somehow forced her into unconsciousness.

The last thing she saw was the blurry outline of Sylar's face staring back at her, burning into eyelids, staining her for eternity.

* * *

Thanks for the reviews, guys! I really appreciated it :). It's my first Heroes fic so please feel free to make any suggestions!


	3. Chapter Three

Forever is a Lonely Word

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes! For shame!

* * *

Chapter Three

When she woke up in her apartment it was pitch black. Instinctively she shot up, searching for him, thinking she was still out on the city street with her breath on her neck. Her heart quickened as she tried to grasp the reality of where she was, of what had happened.

She checked the clock, which blinked a bright 2:07 back at her.

He must have brought her back here. The thought of it revolted her. Her skin crawled at the idea of his touch. She wondered how he brought her—if he was gentle, or if he had been careless, knowing that it wouldn't make any difference what harm came to her.

Except now it would.

With a lurch she remembered his words, his leer trailing the curves of her body. _We've made sure of that, haven't we?_ he'd said, as if she'd wanted this, as if she wanted the seed of a power-hording murderer growing inside of her with each passing day.

She started at her flat stomach and shuddered. It would be three months of this thing living inside of her, feeding off of her while she was too distracted to let such a horrible scenario cross her mind. Was there no end to her misery? Just when she thought there was a limit on how much pain she could possibly suffer, just when she'd resigned herself to this miserable, lonely life—she had assumed it couldn't get any worse than this.

Without making any conscious decision to, Claire found herself tearing out of the apartment in her state of disarray. Barefoot and clad in her rumpled parlor uniform, she scaled the four floors down to the sidewalk and tore across the street blindly, ignoring the honks of oncoming cars.

Let them hit her. It would be a laugh compared to the rest of her life.

As she climbed the stairs back up to her apartment, it occurred to her that a few months ago, this was the last place she thought she'd be: running like a madwoman into a convenience store to take a pregnancy test in a bathroom habituated by cockroaches and filth.

Carrying the child of a murderer.

The test was positive, of course. There wasn't even really a point to it, except she needed some sort of evidence that she hadn't hallucinated the whole ordeal, that this was actually happening.

She didn't breathe for a long time, until her chest was screaming for release, and she let herself suck in a greedy breath of air. A dry sob escaped against her will. She cupped her head in her hands, mouthing the word "no" over and over, as if she could magic the baby away by sheer willpower.

She wondered darkly how a doctor could get rid of a baby whose mother's body constantly regenerated, and then she felt sick again for thinking of such a thing. It wasn't the baby's fault, she knew. It didn't ask to be the product of such evil.

But it was, nonetheless, and for that she could not help but try and find some sort of escape from this.

She looked in the bathroom mirror and almost startled herself with her unkempt appearance. Her hair was a frizzy mess, her face glistening with an unhealthy sheen of sweat, her eyes reflecting back at her, looking as wild and uncertain a she felt. She wasn't ready for this. For God's sake, she was only nineteen years old. Anybody her age would be unprepared for a baby, let alone—

No. She wasn't going to think about it. She deliberately shoved the test into the trash, purged the horror of it all out of her thoughts.

It wasn't as if she could pretend that everything was all right, but she wasn't going to let herself feel any worse than she already did.

* * *

Claire knew better than to go to a doctor. She already harbored such an intense idea that this baby was unnatural, that there was something inherently wrong with it—whether because of the grotesque circumstances under which it was conceived, its twisted lineage, or how she already felt so detached from it was hard to think it was a physical being.

Either way, the last thing she needed was some sort of medical interference. She didn't want any trace of this baby, any record of it in a hospital or anywhere else. A thick lump of guilt always grew in her throat when she thought about it, but she knew that this was how it had to be.

Instead she went through the motions, now more careless than usual with the added distraction. She showed up for work looking unkempt and barely made eye contact with anyone. More often than not she would forget something, like her work apron, or her rollerblades, or her wallet. It started harmlessly in that way.

Another month passed. Steadily throughout that rainy, dripping May she became more and more reckless. She walked on the streets without checking, and had miraculously walked away from several hits. She sliced off her own thumb with the pizza cutter with her manager standing right behind her. She introduced herself to a woman in the park as Claire.

When she passed her reflection in a window she didn't recognize the straggly-haired, glaze-eyed girl staring back at her. It was as if she didn't exist. Without anyone there to confirm her existence—to know her for who she was and what she was, to acknowledge her being alive—it was as if she had disappeared.

Everything but the baby. And at the end of that long May, the idea of the baby became like a crutch. There was some hope in that somebody needed her, somebody would love her again one day. Someone Sylar wouldn't take from her. It was a small comfort, though; the loneliness was unbearable.

Even Sylar had left her alone.

She realized after awhile that it was intentional, his decision to ignore her. As if he were punishing her, she thought bitterly one night, and then instantly she was sick with shame for thinking that way, even for a split second.

She should be glad Sylar was out of her life. Maybe he'd be done with her for good. Maybe now that he'd used her to prolong his immortality to even further limits by planting a piece of himself in Claire, he would finally leave her alone.

When there was no sign of him for weeks, she relaxed enough that she even let herself explore the city awhile. She was taking a walk through Central Park one Saturday—not necessarily enjoying herself, because she was past ever letting herself feel any sort of emotion that let her guard down. She was considering buying a pretzel at a nearby stand when she saw Sylar sitting on a bench, watching her under the brim of his cap with a condescending smirk.

All thoughts of food vanished and she sat down beside him, keeping as much distance between herself and him as possible.

"What do you want?" she asked, the air hissing out her teeth.

He arched his back, stretching theatrically. "I'm only enjoying a day off in the park, Claire. You were the one who decided to sit next to me, remember?"

Her face reddened at the implication. "It was either that or you'd follow me," she said in defense of herself.

"Or were you just hoping I would?"

"Of course not." She straightened her posture, unwilling to lose her cool in front of him. "If I had it my way, I'd never have to deal with you again."

He laughed. "Then have it your way, Claire."

This time, instead of disappearing, he very deliberately stood from the bench and walked away. She lurched forward—to do what, call him back to her?—then slumped, watching his back fade away as he distanced himself from her.

The thud of her tear hit her thigh and surprised her. She wiped furiously at her eyes and stood abruptly from the bench, walking in the other direction, determined not to look back.

* * *

On the first day of June, Claire was mindlessly staring out her tiny window when there was a knock on her door. She frowned in bewilderment. No one ever knocked on her door; she didn't get any mail and she didn't know anybody who would visit her.

After a few moments of hesitation, the door knocked again, rapid and urgent. Her scowl deepened and she muttered under her breath at the lack of a peephole in the door. Should she just pretend she wasn't here? For all she knew it was just someone trying to sell something she wouldn't buy.

"Claire? I know you're in there. Open the door."

Her breath hitched.

"Peter," she said softly to herself, and for one moment she was so relieved to hear the sound of his voice again that she almost melted into the carpet.

"Claire!"

Her eyes welled up and against all better judgment, she bolted for the door. It was only as her hand was twisting the knob that she froze in realization.

"Are you alright? Let me in, Claire, it's me, Peter—"

"No," she said, resolutely letting go of the knob. "No. Leave me alone. I told you I wanted to be left alone."

"If you don't open this door in the next five seconds I'm going to bust through it myself—"

Maybe she was being stupid, trusting herself to tell the difference between Peter and Sylar's imitation of him, but she sincerely doubted even Sylar could work up that signature Petrelli passion. Somewhat reluctantly she cracked the door open, staring at him in the light of the hallway.

"How do I know it's really you?" she asked lowly.

"Claire," said Peter, his eyes betraying his disbelief. "What happened to you?"

He took a step forward, his hand outreached, and as Claire abruptly backed away from him she thought it was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. She wanted it to be Peter so badly. She wanted somebody, anybody, to hold her and tell her everything would be alright. She didn't want to be alone anymore.

But even if it was Peter, she couldn't let him comfort her. Not while Sylar was still alive.

"How do I know?" she repeated, firm in her resolve.

"God, who else would I be?" said Peter earnestly, looking a bit hurt that she'd retracted the space in the door. The concern was evident in his voice when he pressed her: "What's wrong, is somebody—"

"Yes," she answered, and then she swung the door open and let him in, before she could consider reason.

Peter blinked, thrown off by her sudden change of heart. He took a moment to stare at the apartment and said incredulously, "This is where you're _living?_ Claire—do you even realize how hard everybody's been searching for you?"

"And up until now, nobody's been able to find me. How did you know I was here?" she demanded.

"I borrowed Molly's power. I went all the way to France and back to find her so I could get to you. Everybody's worried sick, Noah's been tearing half the country apart. Nobody's been able to find you—"

"Because I wanted it that way," Claire interrupted.

Peter gaped at her. "_Why?_" he managed after collecting his wits. "What on _earth_ could possibly drive you to hide from all the people who care about you? Whatever it is, it's not _worth _this, it's—Claire . . ."

There were tears streaming down her face, she realized as she felt them slip off her chin. He dropped all pretense of anger and stepped forward, his arms reaching for her, but she stepped back.

"I can't," she said shakily.

Peter knew better than to try again. For awhile he just stood there, watching her cry. Claire wondered during that long moment if he felt as helpless as she did. There was nothing he could do, either.

She decided it wasn't the same for him, though. Someday Peter would get to die. She would live with this helplessness for all of eternity.

Finally he sat down on the bed and looked at her expectantly. "Just tell me what happened, Claire. Tell me what I can do to fix it."

When she turned to meet his gaze she almost laughed at his naivety. "There's nothing you can do," she said.

"Let me try."

She sat down beside Peter, grinding her teeth to think up some lie. Whatever she said to him would be better than telling the truth. There was no reason to burden Peter with it, because as soon as he was gone, she realized that she would have to disappear again, too.

A few minutes passed and she couldn't think of anything, just sitting in silence as her tears leaked out with an almost unnatural speed. She was exhausted, she was paranoid, she didn't even know if this was really Peter . . .

"It started almost a year ago," she said without willing her voice to. She paused, surprised that the words had fallen out of her mouth so thoughtlessly. Peter looked at her, attention rapt, and she continued to babble.

"I met this boy. Eric," she said, his name raw in her throat. The image of his smiling face crossed her mind like the slash of a knife and she inadvertently shuddered. When she tried to recall his face again, it was blurred and unrecoverable.

"And he . . .?" Peter prompted, looking concerned.

"Was perfect," she finished, her voice low and bitter.

"This was the boy who died," Peter said cautiously. "The one they found at your school in his apartment."

Claire nodded. "We both know who did it."

At once his eyes seemed to darken. "Sylar's dead," Peter insisted, as if he'd anticipated this and came prepared to convince her otherwise. "Claire. I killed him. I watched his limbs being burned—"

Claire shot up from the bed. "Oh, so he's dead, is he?" she asked.

Now Peter seemed hesitant. "He has to be. It was him, I know it. Claire, it was just a coincidence—"

"A _coincidence?_" Claire exclaimed, and suddenly all the frustration of five months was bubbling inside of her, projected right at Peter's dumbfounded face. "You're unbelievable. You say you want to help and you sit here and _patronize _me like I'm still some little kid?"

"Claire, you're nineteen. So you reacted on a whim," Peter said, standing up beside her as if to take control of the situation. "Just—come home."

"Would you just _listen_ to me," she said, her voice dangerously biting. When he looked appropriately silenced, she continued, "I know Sylar is out there, because I've seen him."

She waited for his reaction, but there wasn't much of one. "Sylar has done some pretty horrible things, Claire," he started slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. "And you've been through a lot—"

"You don't know the _half _of it," she snapped.

"Please don't be angry. I want to help. It's just that I think that maybe—maybe _you've_ brought him back to life. Maybe . . ." He hesitated. "Maybe you're imagining it."

Her fury was so instantaneous and so unlike anything she ever felt before that she couldn't process any coherent thoughts. There was so much she wanted to say to him, to express how unforgivable his words were, but all that escaped was a curt, barely controlled: "Get out."

"What?" Peter almost laughed.

"You heard me. Get out of here, or I'll—I'll call the police."

"Don't be ridiculous—Claire—"

He reached for her hands and she tore herself away. "Don't you touch me. I mean it."

"Calm down," Peter said firmly. "You know that I care about you. You know I'm trying to help. So please, just take a moment and consider what I'm saying—"

"What you're saying," Claire seethed, "is that I just—_imagined_—"

The baby kicked just then, as if to remind her of the insanity of the situation she was trying to relate to him. Of course it was crazy. Ridiculous. Here she was, five months pregnant, barely showing, about to confess to Peter that it was the child of an immortal serial killer who had come to her in the shape of her dead boyfriend. Anyone would think she was out of her mind.

She took a deep breath. No more tears. No more panic. She looked at him with steely eyes and said, "Peter. You can think what you want about me. Frankly, I don't care anymore."

She paused for a beat, faintly surprised by how true the words felt on her tongue. But it didn't make her lose her resolve. She continued, staring at him without looking, easily bypassing the palpable distress in his eyes.

"I am an adult now, and I am capable of making my own decisions. I choose this. Whether or not you believe me, Peter, I choose this."

It wasn't until that moment that a chill seemed to ice over ever bone in her body. Her own words echoed dully in her head: _I choose this. _And with those three words, it was as if Sylar had already won.

"Claire—"

"So get out of here," she cried, and then Peter was the enemy, the one who would never understand. "Get out of here before you ruin _everything_."

* * *

AHHHHH I'm so, so, so sorry for the delay. I just had my very first official week of college finals and I've been holed up in a dorm room surrounded by books and papers and study guides with only bags of goldfish and candy cane lollipops for sustenance. That was the closest to an acid trip I will ever experience, I am sure. BUT NOW I AM ON WINTER BREAK, which means lots more time to plunk on the keyboard. Hooray!

And with that, thanks for the reviews, they were much appreciated :)


	4. Chapter Four

Forever is a Lonely Word

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes! For shame!

* * *

Chapter Four

For a week walked around New York on autopilot. At first it was as if the run-in with Peter were only a dream, one that she only felt the aftertaste of the next morning before it burned away in her subconscious, insignificant and fleeting. She went to work at the parlor on her normal shift, did her Thursday grocery shop, paid the rent to the half-dead landlord on the first floor.

The only change that she couldn't control was her stomach, which was finally starting to show. A fellow waitress at the parlor noticed it first, and discretely brought a bag full of old maternity clothes for her. Claire was touched by the gesture and only wished that she could have expressed it, but she figured the kindest thing she could do in return was leave it alone. It was safer that way.

By the middle of June the pregnancy was ridiculously obvious, as if she had blown up like a balloon over night. It gave her more of an impression than ever that this baby was an unnatural occurrence. She caught site of herself in a store window and stopped short in surprise.

What she didn't realize was how much would be determined by that one moment of pause. She was staring at her own reflection when she felt someone else's eyes focused in the same direction. Her first instinct was to avert her gaze.

Her second instinct was to run.

"Claire!"

Noah Bennet was fast in pursuit, but she could outrun him. It would be easy. She almost smiled as she blasted through the intersection, paying no heed to the cars he'd have to dart to reach her.

"_Claire—watch out!_"

Instinctively she flinched at the blare of the horn. In the split second before the taxi was supposed to hit her she cursed herself for her thoughtlessness—getting hit would surely slow her down, and then he'd catch her. Invincibility was useless here.

She scrunched her eyes tight in anticipation of impact. What she wasn't expecting was the sensation of someone's firm arms latching onto her and the sudden feeling of weightlessness.

When she opened her eyes again she was facing an unfamiliar wall in an unfamiliar room.

"Careless," a familiar voice sneered.

Her heart thudded audibly in her chest. She wondered if he heart it, too. "Sylar?" she gasped, and then he spun her around to face him, his hands still clamped on her arms.

"Your actions have consequences, Claire. Surely you've realized that by now. Or do I have to teach you again?" asked Sylar, his voice low and threatening.

The moment of entrancement was over, and she jerked out of his grasp, only because in that moment he decided to let her go.

"I didn't ask for him to show up," Claire snapped, adjusting her sleeves.

"But you knew he would."

She froze. His voice had changed again. It was getting to the point where she could heard the subtle shifts and know when he was treading in dangerous territory.

"Peter Petrelli?" Sylar asked lightly.

"I didn't ask for him to show up, either. I sent him away—"

"You were compromised."

"So you want me to just—what? Disappear? Cease to exist?" Claire vented. "I'm still _here_, Sylar."

"Then surely you're starting to understand. You will _always_ be here, Claire."

She shook her head, trying not to meet his eyes. They were glinting in a way she had never noticed before. Protective. Guarded, almost.

The baby, she realized. And in that moment she saw she had more power than she thought.

She sighed. "I will always be here," she repeated ambivalently, unsure what her objective was in this conversation. A part of her was screaming for him to leave, another part desperate for him to stay—but she had to come to terms with the fact that in the long run, it wouldn't matter.

In her moment of reflection she was startled at the unexpected pressure of Sylar's hand against her stomach. She reeled backward, but he only smiled.

She stared at him, at a loss. "You don't get to touch me," she finally said.

Choice words. His predatory stare repulsed her, and she knew she wasn't the only one summoning images from that terrible night. She took another step back defensively, as if he would reach out to touch her.

"Do you think it's any fun for me if you struggle?" Sylar asked lowly. "No. No, that's not me, Claire. I can wait for you. We've got all the time in the world."

"Then I will never stop struggling," Claire shot back. "The day I stop struggling is the day Claire Bennet dies."

"Claire Bennet is already dead!" Sylar's voice was suddenly loud enough that she flinched. Noticing this he visibly relaxed, unclenching his fists and lowering his shoulders. He turned away from her. The control of the conversation shifted back to his side of the room. "You made a mistake letting Peter and Noah find you."

"I didn't let them find me. In case you haven't noticed, I've given up _everything _and _anyone _I care about so they wouldn't—"

"You weren't careful enough. You should've left the moment you saw him at the door."

"What, jumped out the window?" she asked with a caustic laugh.

"Don't be ridiculous, you're with child."

"Immortal child," she said under her breath.

Sylar deliberately put his face in her immediate line of vision. "We are not taking _any _chances," he said, his voice measured and slow. "You stay away from them. _All_ of them."

"It won't happen again," said Claire.

"No, it won't." He considered her expressionless face for a moment, then backed up, disgusted. "I'll make sure of that."

She remembered gasping in a breath, the notion of his words understood in a sweep of terror, but he was gone before she could say a word. Her unuttered protests dissolved into a single cry as she sank to her knees, knowing she would never see Peter or her father again.

* * *

After a few hours of sitting catatonically against the wall she determined that she was in a warehouse, and that it was now dark outside. She finally closed her eyes, numb to anything real, anything that concerned here and now and the baby. Her thoughts grew vaguer the longer she sat there—she wondered how Sylar had gained his transport ability and then, in another flash of horror, she realized Hiro must be dead. And now, thanks to her, Peter and her father would be, too.

With a sharp intake of air she flew to her feet, her mind suddenly whirring. It was a feeling she could only compare with being brought back from the dead that first time, lying on the coroner's table, suddenly excruciatingly aware of every sound, sight, and touch.

There was only one coherent thought in her head: revenge. She was going to make Sylar _hurt_. She was going to make him feel every shred of agony he'd put her through in this past year.

And she knew exactly how she meant to do it.

* * *

She wasn't expecting to be afraid.

Since she saw the daylight skimming in through the doors of the warehouse, she had set on her plan of action. It was final. Unchangeable. She knew when she creaked open the doors to the warehouse, greeted by the stretch of near empty city streets, that there was no turning back.

It only took a few minutes to get to her apartment. She wasn't very far at all. If anything, it made her decision more difficult to follow through; she had anticipated having more time. In her mind she could almost make her decision feel like the right one if she just had the time to justify it, the time to—to what? Explain to her unborn child the horrible thing she was about to do? Make it understand that it was all for the best?

Because it was, really. She wasn't doing this just to punish Sylar. She was doing this to save the baby. That way, at least, one of them would be spared from the hell of Sylar's control.

The stairs in her apartment never seemed to stretch on so long before. She had to stop on the third floor to level herself, catch her breath. A man passed her and gave her double take, his expression a mixture of disapproval and concern, but she disregarded him. He didn't matter—none of them did, really. Everyone she cared about was dead, and if they weren't dead at this moment, they would be soon enough.

When she finally made it into her apartment it occurred to her how ridiculous it would be to do it here, alone with the cockroaches. Not that it needed to be poetic. Really, it just needed to be fast and efficient, before he caught wind and tried to interfere.

She stepped over to her bedside table, the pad of her footsteps drowned out by the beating of her hear, so that she might have been floating. She slid the drawer open and saw the blade gleaming back at her. It wasn't hers. It was the last tenant's, and she had any incentive to get rid of it.

Maybe it was fate. But she couldn't think that way, because what fate would leave her no other option but this?

She grasped the knife in her fist, knowing this would have to be swift. A shot of adrenaline ran through her entire body. "I'm so sorry," she said, and she meant it. She was so, so sorry to this baby, and she hoped that if she were ever to join it in death that it would understand.

Her hand wasn't even shaking as she raised the knife above the back of her neck. The fear was there, overwhelming her, but she was completely dissociated from it. Gone.

She clenched her eyes shut and jammed the blade through her skin, and the two of them went tumbling into the darkness.

* * *

Thanks so much to the people who reviewed, I really appreciate the input. I'll try and write up the next chapter as quick as I can. :)


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Darkness.

_We can't stay like this for long. He'll come back._

Claire struggled to find the source of the noise, but it wasn't something she could hear. Rather, it seemed to be filtering into consciousness, unfathomable and out of her control. She couldn't even answer. It was like being underwater, floating helplessly in the depths of the ocean.

_He's going to be angry._

She already knew that, of course. Sylar was always talking about consequences. This time she had no choice but to face hers—yes, he would be angry. Furious. The baby was his, and by killing herself, she was letting it die.

_I can't. You're keeping me here with you. _

Maybe if she was capable of feeling anything she could react to the sudden comprehension: the voice she was hearing . . .

Or it was just a figment of her imagination.

"Claire?"

_I'm not afraid. _

"Claire. Wake up."

The first ragged breath seemed to rip through her throat. In a burst of clarity she felt everything at once—the shabby carpet beneath her, the stickiness of the blood in her hair, the pressure of Sylar's hands on her shoulders.

When she opened her eyes she saw his face swimming in front of hers, his eyes unreadable and wider than she'd ever seen them. By the time she managed to blink she felt her entire body slam into the wall.

"Sylar—"

"How could you _do_ this?" All the traces of bewilderment or concern or whatever it was she'd imagined in his face were gone, replaced with sheer rage. When she didn't answer right away she felt him shove her against the wall again, harder. "How could you be so _selfish?_"

"_Selfish?_" she spluttered. "_Me—_selfish, after you took _everything_—you murdered the boy I loved—"

"You didn't love him!_"_ Sylar yelled, and the pressure against her shoulders was so intense she was sure the wall would crack behind her.

In a fit of desperation she flailed her limbs, taking satisfaction in every hit she managed to inflict on him. "_I loved him!_" she shrieked, and she relished the look that tore across his face, more satisfying than any pain she could wish on him—in his eyes she saw the reflection of her own agony staring back at her.

Involuntarily her lip curved upward and she said, "You know how it feels now."

In one swift moment he let go of her shoulders, and she was dangling against the wall from his chokehold. She gagged and he pressed harder, leaning his face dangerously into hers.

"I did this for _you_. For us, Claire," he insisted. He seemed so genuinely anguished that Claire stopped struggling, incredulous. "We're going to live forever. We are _nothing_ without each other. Don't you see? I did _this_—so we wouldn't be alone—"

His grip loosened just enough that she managed to gasp, "You chose this—not me. I didn't—I never—"

"It doesn't matter now," Sylar hissed, pressing his hand again, silencing her. His eyes gleamed. "Look at what you've done."

"No—" she tried to gasp, but all that came out was a useless guttural noise.

"You think what I did was wrong? You murdered your own _son_.Those other people—those useless, stupid people in your life, they were all going to die anyway, don't you see what I've been trying to tell you? _We need each other_."

He held her there, her feet dangling and her vision blurring, every muscle fiber screaming for oxygen. Her thoughts were incoherent and useless, but she still felt it all, the impact of his every word. _Your own son,_ he'd said, and she held onto that phrase until it rattled like an echo between her ears.

When he released her, she hit the floor with a thud, half-retching in her greedy gulps of air. He ignored her, picking up the knife, crusted with her dried blood.

"You ruined everything," said Sylar. "After all I've done for you, you throw it all back in my face."

"All you've—" She coughed, her throat hitching. He was advancing on her with the knife. "All you've done for me . . ." There were so many ways to express her torment, the ceaseless horror he'd put her through, but suddenly all she could do was laugh at the irony of what he was saying. As if _he_ had made a sacrifice in destroying her piece by piece, tearing her down until there was nothing left of her. She laughed, wild and hysterical, throwing her blood-soaked head back.

"You still don't understand, do you, Claire?" he asked, his voice calm and condescending in contrast to her mania. "Why I did this to myself. Denied myself the privilege of death."

"Enlighten me," she rasped.

He stared at her in disbelief, as if it were more obvious than anything in the world. "For you, Claire," he said.

It was like someone had punched her in the chest. Knocked the wind out of her.

"_What?_"

"Have you ever thought about it? Really _thought_ about what living forever is going to mean?" He shook his head, chuckling to himself. It unnerved her how in control he seemed with the knife still poised between his fingers. "I didn't want it for myself. I chose it. For you."

She shook her head, horrified. "No," she whispered. "_No_. I—I didn't ask for you to do that. I didn't want it."

"But you need it. You don't see it now, but you'll be alone, and I'll be here."

"Why would you do this? What did I do—to ever make you think I'd want this?"

Sylar only shook his head. "It's my punishment as much as it is yours. Suffering here on Earth with you is just my penance, for all the evil I have done."

"Is that really what you think?" Claire demanded. "That I'm some—_charity _case? That you're here to help me?" She curled into herself, burying her head in her hands. "God, you sick, twisted—"

"He's alive." Sylar's eyes were wide, staring at her stomach, then gazing back up at her. "I hear his heartbeat again."

It was like the rough side of a wave smacking into her. It was the confirmation that she had failed—that it was still here, that _he _was just as real as the two of them. It might have been relief, or it might have been horror, but whatever it was she was reeling, tightening her fists as if she could catch the air between her fingers and balance herself there on the floor.

Sylar set the knife down and knelt down beside her.

"I made a mistake," was all she could say, and she wasn't sure which mistake she was referring to—letting Eric die in the first place; running away; or trying to kill Sylar's baby, and failing even to do that. When she felt her head resting on Sylar's shoulder, though, her mistake was all too clear: some small part of her had let him in. Some small part of her needed him here, and dreaded the inevitable moment that he'd leave her here, alone again.

He put his arm around her shoulder and the moment shattered, as if she had woken from a dream. "No," she said softly, not looking at him. "I don't want you to."

After a reluctant beat he moved his arm away. "However long it takes," he said.

She bit back her anger. It was a fight she'd never win.

"Consider this your second chance." As he stood up he stared at her, compelling her to look back. When their eyes met, he said, "Even if neither of us deserves one."

She watched as he disappeared, and when he was gone she stared at the empty space he had occupied until she felt the heat of the sun on her face, rising in her tiny window, forcing her to accept that he wasn't going to come back.


End file.
